


The Story of My Life (The Old Regrets Never Die Remix)

by amindamazed (hophophop)



Category: Elementary (TV)
Genre: Aftermath of Violence, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Depression, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Remix, Survivor Guilt, racebent!Kitty Winter
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-01
Updated: 2015-07-01
Packaged: 2018-04-07 03:52:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 800
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4248336
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hophophop/pseuds/amindamazed
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>You blame yourself for the man’s death.”</em>
</p><p>It’s possible that Jem would have been killed whether I was there to complicate Le Millieu’s plans or not. (I’ll never know if Aaron Colville would have lived (and the women his mother killed, after) if another doctor had stood up to Fleming.) It still stands that he’s now the last person who died because of me. I don’t even know his full name.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Story of My Life (The Old Regrets Never Die Remix)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [beanarie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/beanarie/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Turn the Page](https://archiveofourown.org/works/2605160) by [beanarie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/beanarie/pseuds/beanarie). 
  * In response to a prompt by [beanarie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/beanarie/pseuds/beanarie) in the [remixmadness2015](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/remixmadness2015) collection. 



> Like beanarie's story, this takes place in an AU season 3 where Kitty was Joan's student in NYC first.

I was waiting in the morgue for the M.E.’s assistant to bring me a file and overheard the conversation (sound really travels in that echo chamber, all that metal and tile). Somebody mentioned ‘adrenal gland’ and it hit me: Gerald Castoro’s not the last person I killed anymore. 

My first reaction was loss, honestly: I’d defined myself by that crime for so long; who was I if I wasn’t the person who’d let him die right in front of me? I had an overwhelming urge to apologize to him for the faux pas of replacing him with another victim. 

Jem’s guilt was different. I still can’t explain how I failed Gerald in that one instant, but Jem’s death stemmed from a cascade of mistakes reaching back to the first time I met Mycroft. And before that, really, coming from a long history of resenting being told how to behave. Sherlock was being an ass, but that doesn’t excuse my immature reaction to his immature needling. Sleeping with Mycroft was such a small thing at the time. A little indulgence without resonance, like the Harrods chocolate bar I brought back and ate a week after we got home. If only he’d never come to New York… Their sibling rivalvry was just so ridiculous, I couldn’t help taunting them by being friends with both. Then I let myself get caught up in their emotional battlefield and wanted to prove I could do it all. And walked right into Le Millieu’s trap. 

It’s possible that Jem would have been killed whether I was there to complicate Le Millieu’s plans or not. (I’ll never know if Aaron Colville would have lived (and the women his mother killed, after) if another doctor had stood up to Fleming.) It still stands that he’s now the last person who died because of me. I don’t even know his full name.

*

Karen Lloyd. Tim Palmer, Detective. I had to wait for the obituary to learn his first name, too ashamed to ask anyone at the station and admit I hadn’t known. This time there was no one I was remotely tempted to confide in, no one I’d assumed would have my back when I couldn’t turn around to face what I’d done. Just a sympathetic colleague and a joke about old roommates. I was so grateful for Marcus, not just after the elevator but the whole time I was on my own. I didn’t want to do anything to give him second thoughts about working with me. Maybe he felt the same. Well, not the _same_ ; he had real coworkers and a management structure and institutional history backing him up. But he said he appreciated my help, and he kept on calling to ask for it. It’s good. I haven’t killed _that_ relationship yet.

Kitty was a godsend, but she maintained walls around her personal life thicker than mine. It was clear from that one time I tried to get her to open up that it wasn’t going to happen. Just as well; figuring out how to teach someone what I’d been taught was hard enough without dragging old, unnecessary baggage into it. She didn’t need my counsel, and we didn’t have to be friends. It would make it easier when it was time for her to go off on her own, I told myself. And then Sherlock showed up.

Sherlock showed up with his perfect deductions and facile explanations and not an apology in sight. History’s only relevant if it helps you solve a case. Apparently. Other than the occasional highly spun anecdote about training me, used to manipulate Kitty — who could obviously care less and just wanted him to get on with it; even after she jumped-ship, she was still a godsend — it’s as if I actually left after those first six weeks were up, and somebody else came back to take detective lessons a month later. That’s also good. Better. I can’t regret losing something that wasn’t there to begin with.

*

Andrew Mittal. Elana March. The last thing Andrew did was be kind to me as I told him in so many words that I couldn’t love him. The last thing he heard before he died was that he wasn’t loved. I did that. Me.

I couldn’t keep Sherlock out if I wanted to, once Moriarty got involved. At least his guilt kept him too preoccupied to meddle much with mine. Maybe he even respected my body count by this point; I don’t know. He wasn’t officially training me any more, but I could still learn by his example. I’d been a workaholic for decades; the only difference now was officially swearing off trying to have other people in my life too. I'd always been bad at that anyway. Some things never change.


End file.
